Page 5 of Whistle

Brynne loved Ghostbusters.

Bang! Bang! Bang! “If I get sick, I’m suing!”

Jangling keys drew closer, and I squeezed my eyes even tighter, trying to shut out everything. I didn’t know where I was, but that didn’t alarm me. I was used to it.

I did wish they’d shut the fuck up, though.

Clanking followed by the click of a lock and then a door creaking open assaulted me.

“Jesus,” someone muttered. “He alive?”

“Unless all that retching killed him, then yeah.”

A muffled curse. “Let’s go. Across the hall.”

“You could just let me go.”

“Your wife could just post your bail.”

“Fuck you.”

Their voices died down, and I appreciated the peace. Sadly, it was short-lived.

A few jabs on the side of my leg roused me. “Hey, kid.”

I made a sound.

“You sick? You need a doctor?”

“Looks to me like the kid’s hungover.” A new voice joined.

“Think he’s got alcohol poisoning?”

Wouldn’t be the first time.

“If he did, he probably doesn’t now.”

“I don’t get paid enough for this shit.”

This time, the jab and voice were much more forceful. “Hey, kid.”

Slowly, I pried my lids open, the overhead light like a direct high beam to my irises. I grunted and threw up a sticky hand to shield them as I peered through watering slits.

“You need a doctor?”

“No,” I croaked, not even recognizing the sound of my own voice.

“Get up. You can’t lay there.”

“Leave me alone,” I mumbled.

A hand slid under my arm and hauled me up as though I weighed nothing at all. The forced movement made me angry, and I yelled.

“You’re being moved to a new cell.”

Cell?

Wobbling on my feet, I leaned into the hand holding me up and gazed around. Cement floor, cement walls, metal bars… Fuck. I was in jail.

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